Anne opened the front door and led the way to the big kitchen at the back of the farmhouse.
I'd met her two weeks earlier. We'd fucked urgently on our first meeting and no less urgently every day since. We'd fucked at hers and, more usually, in the back of my Mark II Transit. In the back of the Transit I had a mattress and blankets in the hope that one day . . .
And eventually my hope materialised, in the form of Anne. It was in the back of that van that Anne started to teach me what women needed.
Hers was a large family farmhouse with a court yard surrounded by the usual outbuildings. We used the enormous traditional farmhouse kitchen. The back of her house was not overlooked by anybody or anything, just acres of crops growing in the fields. In the kitchen, on the occasion of our first fuck at hers, Anne had made it plain that she loved being naked when she fucked. As she is utterly stunning dressed or naked I was most eager to help her strip off. She then stripped me off. Once naked we fucked on the kitchen table, over the kitchen table, up against the wall beside the big fridge and, what was to become our favourite on a cold winters day, leaning against the Aga.
As you will imagine, on that particular Saturday morning when Anne asked if I would like to go to hers, I agreed without hesitation. My cock must have heard because within minutes it was like a rod of iron, as would any eighteen year old's cock when it expected to be fucking a beautiful, naked blonde within thirty minutes!
If it got hard almost instantly you can imagine how rapidly it deflated when Anne pushed open the kitchen door.
"Hello Mum, this is Martin."
Anne's mother was standing at the sink doing some hand washing - her smalls judging by the items on the draining board. She was a little taller than Anne, maybe an inch, making her all of five feet two. From the back view her hair was the same long, blonde, slightly dishevelled delight that was her daughter's. She wore a T shirt that had long since seen better days, it only just reached her waist, and a pair of tight Levi's that might have been painted on emphasising another delicious feature that her daughter had inherited - her bum! Very, very stroke-able. I hadn't learned about fucking a delicious arse at that time. My cock twitched more than a little as my mind enjoyed the thought of fucking her. Eighteen year olds do that kind of thing - dream!
She turned to face me.
"Hello Martin," she said peeling off her yellow Marigolds, "So nice to see you. Anne has told me so much about you."
H-O-L-Y S-H-1-T!
I turned to Anne,
"This is your big sister not your mother, right?" I accused.
"Nope." she replied with a beaming smile, "that's my Mum alright. Known her since I was born."
They do say that if you want to know what a girl will look like when she is older, look at her mother now. Well I looked at Anne's mother. Hair? As dishevelled from the front as it was from behind - just like her daughter's. Eyes? The most beautiful blue - just like her daughter's. A beautiful, perfect face totally untouched by make-up of any kind - just like her daughter's. The T shirt hid her upper body from careful scrutiny but the swellings were enough to show that they too were delicious and that she wasn't wearing a bra - just like her daughter. In retrospect Anne's had a little filling out to do at that time. The bottom of the T shirt was wet due to her doing her smalls, it stuck to her flat belly enticingly. I'll swear that the jeans were painted on, especially around her crotch and my gaze probably lingered longer there than it should have done under the circumstances. Age? Twenty five? Twenty six? Max! Very, very fuckable - just like her daughter.
Common sense told me that she wasn't twenty five or six. I did a quick bit of mental arithmetic. Her mum was married to her dad before she was born so thirty seven minimum!
"She's kidding?" I suggested tentatively.
"No kidding. Flatterer. I married Bob, her Dad, when I was twenty. Anne was born two years later. I was Anne's age when she was born." she replied with a delighted smile that matched her daughter's. "Sadly Bob died when she was five. His tractor rolled into a ditch."
More rapid calculations. Anne's mother was twenty two when she gave birth to Anne. Ergo, Anne is at least twenty two, give or take a few months. and her mother is at least forty four!
"I'm a toy boy!"
"Do you mind?" asked my girlfriend.
